He Sat in the Back

Every moment we spent with Jacob had a purpose.

Jacob was the one who always sat as far away from the teacher's desk as possible, and hunkered down to avoid being seen in class, by anyone. Stringy black hair fell to his shoulders, and his entire expression was one of defeat... alas, school was not an option for a boy of 13. He didn't have many friends in school, not close ones, anyway, but he showed up every day, served his time, and went home to his Playstation 3, where he would spend the evening stealing cars, skateboarding, and killing things. I'm sure you know a kid like him. He lives down your street, or is in your classroom, or has been, or may even be your brother or your son. You all know quite well, I'm sure, just exactly what Jacob was like, but this story is not about him, as much as about how Jacob affected me.

 

His last name was Acosta, Italian not Hispanic, he pointed out, the first day he saw me translating in his Science class for two of his classmates who didn't speak any English, and needed close attention to understand their assignments. Nevertheless, he always seemed to gravitate to the part of the room where my two students and I sat, and started to ask me for help on his assignments, first only with a look, his eyes pleading for assistance after he failed to find the answer to a question on his worksheet. He so rarely raised his voice to speak, and the teacher, a big, burly farmer with a rough exterior, didn't seem to mind that Jacob was silent, and rarely  returned his assignments. No doubt, the teacher thought, "Just another loser, not worth my time to try with", and I didn't blame him. After a few months working in a Middle School, I had found the old addage, "You can't teach a seventh grader" to be true. Most kids, at that age, are so full of hormonal change and rebellion that their studies mean nothing to them. Most. Yet, though he seemed to be struggling, and tried to go unnoticed in the classroom, I had an idea in my mind that Jacob really did want to learn, but that something was standing in his way. So, though he wasn't MY student, per se, I developed a bond with him, and treated him as though he were, always there when he asked a question, always offering whispered advice when he was too embarrassed to ask.

 

One day, as I was testing students in the library, Jacob's sixth hour Language Arts class filed in- Jacob, as usual, trailing behind the others. I watched, silent and unseen, as he approached the shelves of books, appearing at a loss for what to look for to reach his required independent reading points. The look on his face struck me, and I left my testing students to their writing assessments, and approached him. He smiled, but his eyes looked sad, and forlorn.

 

"What's wrong, Jacob? Having trouble finding a book?"

 

" Ms. S I hate reading!" His face flashed, suddenly, with what I knew was not pure anger, but frustration. He threw his current book on the nearest round table, and looked at me, as if to say, "Just leave me alone, already".

 

I didn't leave him alone.

"Why? I love to read. It's a wonderful way to escape reality for awhile. There are so many good books. They can simply set your imagination free..."

 

"Ms. S, please. There is NOTHING interesting in books. BOOOOORING. Besides, I'm not very good at it. At reading, I mean."

 

I sighed, and then an idea hit me. I looked at the book he had thrown on the table. It was a typical, bland teen drama, by an author I'd never heard of. The kind of book that the shelves at the Middle School were full of, sadly.

 

"That book does look boring, but I saw something over here you might like, Jacob. My favorite author. I'm surprised to see him in the Middle School Library. His name is Dean Koontz. Do you like to watch Science Fiction movies, or horror movies?"

 

"Sure, I guess. I do watch SciFi channel alot."

 

"Well, Dean Koontz writes about things like that, only the things that we have evidence are real, though of course his stories are made up. They are really adult books, I suppose, and they have some very adult language and things in them, so perhaps you won't be interested..."

 

"Show them to me." Now, his voice had changed. He was interested.

 

As we approached the row of Koontz's novels, I started to give a brief overview of what each was about. I had read them all. Jacob chose Demon Seed, an older Koontz novel, about a man who becomes tied to his computer, and merges with it... he almost ran to the checkout line, the first this time, not the last.

 

Over the next few days, I was ill. On Monday, I returned to school, and walked into the last hour Science class to work with Jacob and my students. As I walked in, I saw that his nose was not hitting the desk, but buried in a book. The book I had helped him to choose. I also noticed that he had a battered little paperback dictionary on his desk, close at hand. As class began, Jacob reluctantly put his bookmark in, and laid the book aside. I saw that of the some 300 pages, well over half had been read. I eyed his dictionary, quizzically. "I'm looking up the words I don't know, by myself. My grandmother told me that was how I should do it, when I kept asking her about words. I don't have to look up to many, but I want to understand what is going on. This is a really good book, Ms. S. Thank you..."

 

Months passed, and every Dean Koontz book in the school library flew through Jacob's hands, in rapid succession. Just before school ended for the summer, he ran out of them. I recommended a few other authors he should look at over the summer. I don't think that he spent much time playing video games, that summer before ninth grade.

 

In August, as school started again, I heard that Jacob Acosta had moved to a larger city nearby, to live with the grandmother he had mentioned to me, once. I missed him, but soon found myself caught up in the schoolyear, so many students to help, not enough time for them all...

 

And then, in September, my father called me one night. "Hey, I just read in the paper... Did you ever work with a Jacob Acosta? Name sounded Hispanic, and they said he went to your Middle School last year..."

 

I was hoping it was something good, but I knew, I just knew. My hand shook, holding the receiver. "I knew him, yea. What?" I know my father heard the urgency in my voice, and he hesitated.

 

"He was in a car wreck in Wichita, with an older kid with the same last name. The other kid lived, but Jacob was killed on impact."

 

I received that call in the evening, and thought of that kid until I passed out, and went to work at the school the next morning exhausted, with my head hanging low and my eyes still misty. All of the teachers  had heard, and flung it about the breakroom like it was just another news story. It bothered me, oh, yes, it did.

 

Jacob was the kid who always sat in the back, trying not to be noticed. Other than recognition of his name, he had succeeded in doing so with most every adult in the building, except for one Special Education teacher, and myself. She and I sat together during our lunch one day, aside from the others, and remembered him properly, for the sweet, eager child he really was, sharing stories of the times we had working with him, and getting to know him.

 

"You never expect these kids to die before you, just like your own.." she muttered, finally, "it's like the work you put into them, the will to learn you left them with, had no purpose..."

 

I stopped her short. "Every moment we spent with him had a purpose, and one that had little to do with learning to love reading, or learning to do math better while he was with you. He knew we liked him, noticed him, and cared about him, and about whether or not he learned. He died carrying that with him, at least. And, if you believe in a higher power, like I do, you know he isn't really gone. He's still carrying a little of us and the times we spent with him, with him, up there somewhere. Definitely up."

 

Not only does Jacob, up there somewhere, still know I care, but I know he also knows that there will never, ever, as long as I work in Education, be a child in the back of a classroom I don't talk to, and pick on until I can get them to open up. No more faceless, name-only students anywhere I work. No more. Rest in peace, Jacob. This is not the only thing I've written that I've written for you, you know...

Reviews

[Crowley]

First off, very solid writing....I like to point that out because I see a lot of story lines that might be good but are kind of wrecked when the writing isn't so solid. Very sad, I have a twelve year old son, not the wall flower, but also has been a chore to get him reading, and for sure it has taken finding him something he is interested in to get him to read, and I must say, the teacher he has this year has had alot to do with it. TV and Vieo games are things that definitely have taken hold, we try to get the kids out of the house as often as possible to do something that gets their minds and bodies out of the bedroom and into the sunshine. I know the feeling of trying to reach someone as I once ran a book club in a juvenile detention center on a volunteer basis, until the made it too hard to get in. Its weird what motivates teenagers, they would ask if I paid for the books and food I brought myself, and because I wasn't a part of the system, they appreciated it more and I had good participation. Nice pace, and highly identifiable situation made this good for me. thanks for letting me stop by, nice work.

[Samuel Dickens]

This is a great story, Constance, and one I'm glad you told. I could relate to Jacob on two levels -- the first that of having once been a 13 year-old misfit myself, and secondly, a person who cares about and bonds easily with young people. If this story is true, and I suspect it is, (or mostly so) I'm very sorry for your loss. Though Jacob wasn't with us long, you no doubt enriched his short life.